For she felt sartin’-sure he’s come,
Down to her very shoe-sole.
She heered a foot, an’ knowed it tu,
A-raspin’ on the scraper,—
All ways to once her feelin’s flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.
He kin’ o’ l’itered on the mat,
Some doubtfle o’ the sekle;
His heart kept goin’ pity-pat,
But hern went pity Zekle.